


Conversations on the Road

by FrostbitePanda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Deleted Scene, Dialogue, Don't expect too much, F/M, Fluff, Gen, One-Shot, Some Humor, and sam is a curious fucker, jon is really bad at talking about feelings, minimally polished, our two favorite bros have a little chat on the road, they have a lot of catching up to do after all, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda
Summary: “He helped you,” Sam corrected. “Jon! Youcommandeda dragon!” he went on, breathless with wonder.“I didn’tcommandhim… Iaskedhim,” Jon replied somewhat testily, “a dragon is not a slave.”(a deleted scene from "Ozymandian")





	Conversations on the Road

**Author's Note:**

> You can probably still get it if you haven't read Oz, don't be scared.

****  
  


He always hated riding. 

 

He had never been very good at it-- yet another thing he was  _ supposed  _ to be good at that he had failed to master. His misery was not helped by the dismal weather. The fur of his cloak seemed to do little to stave off the ever-growing cold and only grew damp and heavy with melting snow. At least the ceaseless, knifing winds that had dogged them since leaving Winterfell seemed to have abated, for now. 

 

Sam clicked his tongue as his mare stumbled in the snow. He clumsily yanked on the reigns, his horse tossing her head irritably. He looked over at his best friend riding beside him in both wonder and frustration. He was the vision of a composed, adept rider.  _ How in the hells did he do it? _

 

Jon threw him a sidelong glance, smirking at his struggles. “There’s room in the wayn, Sam.”

 

Sam snorted. “Don’t tempt me.” He grunted as his mare tossed her head and whines in protest. 

 

“Give her her head a bit,” Jon called, amusement clear in his voice. “She wants to find her hooves in the snow, but you’re not letting her.”

 

Sam did not know what, exactly, “give her her head” meant, but he brought his hands forward and his little bay stilled. 

 

“Better?” 

 

Sam nodded. “Aye,” he answered. “With a milder ride and the winds having gone down this march should be as lovely as a stroll through the garden, now.”

 

Jon barked a laugh. “I’m pleased to see that the Citadel didn’t turn you into a sour old bat, Sam.”

 

Sam shrugged. “What else I am to do?” he said as he looked over at his friend and tilted his chin at him. “I am not at good at brooding as you.” 

 

Sam watched as one of Jon’s eyebrows ticked up at that, trying to look serious, but a smile was fighting in the corner of his mouth. 

 

“God’s know we need some humor around here,” Davos grumbled from Jon’s other side.

 

Sam couldn’t argue that. Since being reunited with his friend, he had not seen one hint of joy or lightness in Jon’s countenance or stature. Not that Sam could really blame him. The company they were currently keeping certainly did little to help things. 

 

He glanced behind his shoulder, where two hundred Unsullied, clad in roughly-sewn furs marched abreast against the piled snow. The Hound, Brienne, Tormund, and Ser Jorah all rode in a well-spaced line directly behind the two of them-- all as stony and grim as the gray belly of cloud that had persisted for an age. The hundred riders from the Northern houses trailed behind them all, making up a sort of rear guard with-- much to the Northerners’ ire-- the rest of Tormund’s Wilding archers.

 

As if to illustrate his misgivings, there was a clamor from the rear of the company and the unmistakable sound of swords loosening in their scabbards and a good amount of uttered oaths. Sam looked to Jon, who barely glanced over his shoulder with a tired, knowing look, before turning to his Hand and nodding. Davos nodded back, turning his horse around clumsily as Tormund wheeled his own around to join him. “Oy! You lot, the fuck is going on back there?” he boomed as they rode away. 

 

“Do you think the weather will be a boon or a burden, Your Grace?” Podrick asked from the other side of Sam, as if nothing had happened. Podrick had nigh insisted on coming, despite his liege lady’s fervent protestations. Jon had relented, bestowing the young man with the “great honor” of carrying the Stark banner to Castle Black. The young man had been simply elated to be granted with such a task.

 

“It is a boon to the queen,” Jon answered, looking stern, “but not so much for us.” 

 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Pod began with a bit of an exaggerated bow in his saddle, “but how can such a thing be a boon to the queen? Will it not hamper her flying if the winds persist as they have?”

 

Jon shook his head, a ghost of a grin floating over his mouth. “You do not know dragons, Pod. I don’t think a bit of chop is going to dissuade them. As to your second point-- we need the clouds. The  _ queen _ needs the clouds. To hide her as she flies to Castle Black.” Jon squinted up at the slate of the sky. “Gods be good they will not break for us now.”

 

Podrick tilted his head at that, blinking, looking a bit poleaxed. “I wouldn’t want to fly through that,” he said as he looked up at the rumple of clouds. “The queen must be very brave, to do such a thing.” 

 

Sam watched as something bright and fierce ignited in Jon’s eyes, the corner of his mouth ticking up. Sam remembered Jon giving him a similar expression, when he had finally managed to parry one of Jon’s attacks in the yard at Castle Black. 

 

“Aye,” Jon intoned. “She is.”

 

“I heard that she flew her dragons beyond the Wall. And that she rescued you and—“

 

“Pod-- Seven Hells-- who put your sword belt on this morning? A blind dog?” Brienne called crossly from behind them. The young man glanced down quizzically at his sword belt. “Come here, you sod.” 

 

Sam saw nothing wrong with how the young man had fastened said belt, but he certainly was not the authority on such matters. All the same, he felt rather like Lady Brienne simply missed her friend-- Sam found she had a rather brusque way of showing her affection.

 

Sam cast his eyes back to the company trailing behind them as Pod halted his pony so that Brienne could draw level with him, fiddling with his belt. Sam wrinkled his brow, sweeping his eyes over the line of riders. 

 

“Did your sister not volunteer to come with us, Your Grace?” Sam asked, finally placing who was it that was absent. Surely, if the king’s own sister had accompanied them, she would be riding right alongside them at the front. 

 

“How many times have I told you not to call me that Sam?” Jon snapped, exasperated. Sam shrugged, knowing full well that he would probably let it slip again. Jon shifted in his saddle, looking irritable. “And I told Arya to stay in Winterfell.”

 

Sam snorted. “I’m sure she took that well.”

 

“Aye, she didn’t,” Jon sighed. “But I gave her something more important to do anyway.” 

 

“Which was what?” 

 

“I don’t know if you noticed, Sam,” Jon said as he glanced back to the group at their back. “But every last person tasked with protecting the queen is here with me.” He looked back to the road ahead, though it was not much more than a smear of black woods and somber sky. “She sent all of her bloodriders away, for some bloody mad reason.” Sam gulped at this, biting down on his tongue hard to keep himself from revealing what he knew about the queen’s unusual decision. “None of these crazy bastards are going to stay behind in Winterfell, so I tasked her with protecting Daenerys.”

 

Sam couldn’t help the crook of his lips at his friend’s casual slip. “You know, Jon, the queen  _ does _ have dragons.” 

 

Jon looked unjustifiably surly at this. “Aye, but that’s not enough. A dragon cannot protect her from a catspaw. Some bloody fool who thinks himself a hero.” 

 

Sam nodded, looking to his reins. He remembered their departure from Winterfell, a day before-- the queen lingering a bit too long beside Jon’s saddle, her face wavering between immeasurable worry and queenly passiveness. Jon had lowered his hand, passing her something Sam was not able to see, but he had seen Daenerys’ response. She had looked up at Jon with an open mouth and disbelieving eyes before he nodded to her and kicked his horse through the gates. 

 

They were silent again for a time, and Sam shifted and sighed, restless and uncomfortable and not the least amount bored. He found he had had some difficulty coming to relate with his friend again. He had suspected when he had arrived at Winterfell that it would be a trial, as his friend had survived (somehow, Jon would not speak of it) an assassination attempt, had fought a bitter and bloody battle for his home and his sister, had lost yet another brother and had been crowned king all in a relatively brief amount of time. That was enough to change any man, let alone the revelations that had been unearthed during Sam’s quiet hours spent with Bran. Jon Snow, a bastard born boy who never knew his true past, now the true heir to the Iron Throne and the center of a prophetic web of magic and mythos that not even Sam fully understood. 

 

He was also a man in love.

 

Jon had always been fairly miserable at keeping his emotions hidden. In fact, it seemed to Sam, the more he attempted to keep them buried, the worse it was. He telegraphed his feelings only through small things, things that many others may miss-- a gaze that lasted a bit too long, a hand hovering at the small of the queen’s back, the fierceness behind his words when he spoke of her. He’d always been a passionate man, but there was something more feeding that fire nowadays. 

 

It was no small wonder that Sam was having trouble finding his place back at Jon’s side, but he was determined to do it all the same. Jon needed every trusted friend and advisor he could get, and Sam would be damned if a bit of awkwardness was going to dissuade him. 

 

Sam’s eyes darted to the Targaryen banner held aloft by an Unsullied soldier that looked to be just as unfamiliar in a saddle as Sam. He swallowed, gathering his courage to begin a conversation he desperately wanted to have, but was desperately afraid of starting. Jon was fiercely private, and the peace that had settled on the company after the winds had died was tenuous at best. But he didn’t know when he’d get Jon relatively alone like this again… he had to try. 

 

“So,” he began, voice tight. He cleared his throat as Jon glanced over at him, waiting. “I couldn’t help but notice... that one of the queen’s dragons flew with you on your march to Winterfell.”

 

He looked away, nonplussed. “Aye.”

 

“Well… that’s quite…” Sam trailed off, trying to think of a word to describe the relative absurdity and enormity of a dragon not under your mandate escort you home. He cleared his throat. “That must have been amazing to see.” 

 

“Aye,” Jon said again, regarding him in a knowing, almost suspicious way. “It was.”

 

“Did you ever… well I mean to say… did you ever  _ have words _ with the dragon?” Sam felt as about as foolish as the words sounded in that moment, but he really wasn’t certain how else he could put it.

 

Jon turned his face away once more, his brow wrinkled in thought or confusion, Sam could not say. 

 

“I only ask because-- well, something must have come up during the march, right?” Sam went on as he was so apt to do when feeling as nervous as he was at that moment. “And-- well, forgive me, but you  _ are _ a Targaryen--”

 

“I’m not,” Jon interrupted coldly, eyes averted. 

 

Sam probably looked something like a landed trout, opening and closing his mouth several times, each occasion with new, paltry words of reassurance, of comfort, of persuasion. He finally huffed and looked glumly to the horn of his saddle.

 

“I did speak with the dragon though, Sam,” Jon said after a tense silence, his voice gentler, perhaps a bit intrigued. “He… he did not speak back, but…”

 

Sam straightened in his saddle, leaning forward in anticipation. “And he understood you? What did you say?” 

 

Jon looked a bit flustered, his hands twitching his reigns and his cheeks reddening. “I asked him if he could help us dig out of a storm, and he… well, he helped us.”

 

“He helped  _ you _ ,” Sam corrected. “Jon! You commanded a  _ dragon! _ ” he went on, breathless with wonder.

 

“I didn’t  _ command _ him… I  _ asked _ him,” Jon replied somewhat testily, “a dragon is not a slave.”

 

Sam sat back in his saddle, a bit stunned. “‘A dragon is not a slave’…” Sam mused, “where have I heard that before?”

 

Jon’s blush truly took hold now as he looked away. “It’s a... Targaryen saying. Daenerys… she says it in Valyrian, but I can never get the sounds right.”

 

Sam tried mightily to keep the triumphant smile off his face. No use in being smug about it.

 

“I’m sorry, Sam, for being short with you. You don’t deserve it,” Jon went on quietly, looking at him in apology. He threw his shoulder up, helpless. “It’s just… it’s quite a bit to think on and, well, it’s not like I have much time for deep contemplations these days.”

 

Sam nodded weakly, swallowing. “Aye,” he returned slowly. “I’m-- I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry you had to hear all of that all at once, really. And I know--”

 

“It’s alright, Sam,” Jon said softly, the frailest ghost of a smile shading his mouth. “I am glad you were able to find the truth.”

 

Sam looked at him incredulously. “You’re… glad?”

 

“Why are you so surprised?” Jon asked, looking out to the wild, white waste spread before them. “All I’ve ever wanted was to know of my mother.”

 

“Yes but--” Sam halted, his tongue heavy. “I mean-- you’ve never much liked ruling.”

 

“And who says I will rule?” 

 

Sam lifted a shoulder. “It is your birthright.” 

 

“Aye,” Jon said heavily.

 

Sam glanced nervously at his friend, sensing that the conversation was veering to what Sam had most desperately wanted to talk about, but he knew he was already pushing his luck. “Forgive me, my friend, but does this mean you intend to take up the Iron Throne? After all this is done?”

 

“I do not intend anything, Sam,” Jon returned quickly, clearing his throat. “I only intend to win this war. For whatever lays beyond, I know very little. There is no time to conceive of it.” 

 

There was something queer in his friend’s face as he said this. So queer, that Sam felt compelled to ask, in a fit of bravery: “What did you give the queen before we left?” 

 

Jon looked down at his reins, his face twisted in a sort of distant pain. “That is none of your concern, Sam.”

 

“Oh come on, Jon,” Sam complained loudly, “Are we bloody friends or not?”

 

Jon was silent for a long while, eyes restless over the horizon. Sam gave him his silence, in a rare moment of restraint. 

 

“It was a ribbon,” Jon finally answered, sounding strained. 

 

“A ribbon?”

 

“Aye.”

 

Sam blinked in confusion for a long moment before-- “Like a ribbon… for a  _ wedding _ ?”

 

Slowly, Jon nodded with an exasperated breath. Sam felt joy and something like  _ relief _ flood his heart. He had so long been mortified that the truth of Jon’s birth and heritage would strain, perhaps even _ destroy _ whatever happiness he had found with Daenerys that it had plagued him like a pox. Blood related or no, Sam knew that Targaryens cared little for such things (as if an uncle had never married a niece in the Seven Kingdoms), but a rival heir was another thorn that he did not know how the Queen of Dragons would handle. 

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Sam breathed. “That’s bloody fantastic, Jon!” he exclaimed happily, clapping Jon on the shoulder.

 

His friend looked quite put out, glancing furtively over his shoulder. “Keep your bloody voice down, Sam.”

 

Sam emitted a disbelieving chuckle. “What for?” he protested. “Why shouldn’t everyone know? This is brilliant!”

 

Jon nodded to him, eyes thoughtful and questioning, his mouth twisted in a suppressed grin. “You seem pleased.”

 

“Pleased?” Sam repeated in a hopeful rush. “I’m relieved!”

 

“Relieved?” Jon returned sharply. 

 

Sam’s face fell at this as he looked down at his hands, fidgeting nervously with his reins. “Well-- I just… I just had my suspicions, you know. And I didn’t know--”

 

“Suspicions?”

 

“About you and the queen’s true feelings for each other,” Sam returned quietly. “And, I mean, you  _ have  _ always liked the fiery ones-- if you don’t mind me saying--” Sam was interrupted by Jon’s bark of laughter at this and Sam felt himself smiling, stunned. “I just… knowing what you would learn… I was terrified it would ruin everything for you…” He looked up at his friend, feeling a hot flame of love and a fierce  _ protectiveness _ lick up into his throat. “You deserve the truth, Jon, but you also deserve happiness.”

 

Jon…  _ grinned _ , looking as relaxed as Sam had ever seen him. “Your concerns are appreciated my friend,” Jon replied, “But unnecessary.” 

 

“I don’t think I will ever be happier to be proven wrong,” Sam answered. “What is it like?” he pressed on, helplessly curious and quite emboldened by now. “I mean-- being Targaryen? There seems to be a bit of mysticism to it all.” 

 

Jon was silent for such a long time, Sam started to wonder if his friend had heard him. “I cannot tell you truly, my friend,” he finally ventured. “I cannot begin to know what it really means to be a Targaryen.” He clicked his tongue, calming his horse as it stumbled in a snow drift. “I have been a Stark my whole life-- but never a Stark all the same. I can only say…” He halted, taking a great breath. “If I am half the Targaryen she is… well…” he shrugged, helpless, besotted. 

 

Sam nodded, looking away at the horizon, blurred with a distant storm, now. “I’m happy for you, my friend…” he trailed off, not quite knowing what to say. He was so happy for his old friend-- the best man he knew of, disparaged his whole life for something he could not help… for him to find happiness with such a formidable woman… it was almost like something from a song. It made Sam a bit dizzy when he thought about it for any length, truth be told. “She is quite the woman,” he landed on, eventually. 

 

“Aye,” Jon responded, his voice soft, his eyes distant and fond.

 

Sam licked his lips, running headlong into the fray. “So… you intend to rule beside Daenerys Targaryen after the war is won?” he asked cautiously. “You intend to sit the Iron Throne along with her?” Jon looked over at him, amused, as if the answer to this question were surely obvious. Sam licked his lips, pressing on. “I just mean-- you intend to marry her. Whether you abdicate or not, this will still make you king. And-- well-- I know how much you have loathed ruling.” 

 

Jon blinked at him slowly, as if he had just come across a rather weighty and potent truth and was just then trying to take up the burden of it. He turned his face away again. “Aye, you’re right,” Jon said, his voice sounding rough, unsure. “I found no joy in my command at Castle Black. Maester Aemon told me as much-- but I went on with it anyway, because I-- I was doing what I knew to be right…” He shook his head, hands fidgeting at his reigns. His gelding sighed in protest. “Being King in the North has brought just as much bitterness, if not more.” He looked up at him, inclining his head. “You speak the truth of it, my friend, ruling holds little joy for me.”

 

Sam leaned forward in his seat, bewildered. “Then why, Jon? I know you may love her-- but marrying a queen… no matter how you may try to remove yourself from the throne… you’ll never be free of it.” 

 

Jon’s eyes looked ahead, his shoulders oddly lax, his spine supine, his stance wholly careless as he eased back in his saddle, hands crossed at the pommel. “At the Wall, Sam, I had no one but myself,” he began quietly, looking down at his hands. “At Winterfell, though my sister stood beside me, I was alone in every decision. Even  _ Sansa _ protested me going to Dragonstone.” He shifted in his saddle, taking in an irritated breath, as if the memory still irked him. “I found more than dragonglass and an ally with an enormous army and three dragons to burn the dead away, Sam.” 

 

Jon looked over at him, his eyes dark and shining at once, replete with something Sam could never hope to identify. Jon had always been burdened with higher purpose, higher deeds and designs-- even as a trainee at the Wall, sending thieves and rapers into the mud with relish. It sometimes made him as unknowable as a star, though he was as humble and grounded as any stable boy or miller’s son Sam had ever known. “I found an... equal, Sam,” Jon continued, voice raw, the words ponderous and powerful. “A person who wants the very same things I do for this world.” He paused, taking a steadying breath, closing his eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like her before.”

 

Sam chuffed at that. “I think that would go without saying.”

 

Jon smirked knowingly. “Aye, I suppose it would.” He grew pensive again, fixing Sam with a serious look. “She never once referred to me as a bastard, you know. Not one time.”

 

Sam let out a disbelieving breath at this.  _ Inconceivable,  _ he thought to himself. A woman of her birth and stature? How could she not take in his base-born status, no matter how noble the man? “That is… well that is quite a surprise.” 

 

Jon shook his head in an utterly helpless sort of way. “Ruling alone… fighting tooth and nail for every scrap, Sam, that is a tiresome task to be sure. But-- with her… I don’t know… everything just seems… more  _ possible _ .” 

 

Sam knew well how that felt, thinking of Gilly, of how the coward son of Randyll Tarly had driven a stone knife into the heart of a demon when it came for her and Little Sam. He  _ also _ knew that Jon was not speaking of only matters of state and politics. He looked over at his friend, the Lord Commander, the King in the North, the heir to the Iron Throne-- and saw only a man. A man road-worn and battle weary, ready to hang the precious sword at his side above a roaring hearth, like any lord at peace within their home, but with little hope of ever seeing that simple wish come to pass. 

 

He did not know what to say to his friend to reassure him. All the words of comfort and hope he could conjure seemed trite and paltry. He could only soothe himself with the knowledge that Jon had been as fierce of a warrior as Sam had ever seen in all his days even without a castle to return to, a family to protect, a woman to love. 

 

They both fell silent, the space between them tense, but amiable. Davos returned with Tormund, looking irritable, muttering something to Jon. Jon responded with a heavy sigh and pulled his horse away to join the rear guard of Northerners, Brienne and The Hound hastily following. 

 

Sam watched the scene unfold glumly, feeling both glad and despaired. He was not a godly man by any means, but he uttered a quick prayer as he turned back in his saddle, that their plan worked, and Jon Snow could finally find some rest after all this. 

  
  
+++

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a deleted scene from my behemoth, "Ozymandian". It takes place after Chapter 9 and before Chapter 10. I cut this because not only did the scene get away from me a little bit, but because it just did not fit with the pacing and general tone of Chapter 10.
> 
> Some may notice that I transposed some of this into the conversation that Davos and Jon have later in Chapter 11. I do that a lot.
> 
> I just unearthed this going through some of my old drafts while working on Oz. I had totally forgotten about it, and wanted to just throw this up there for anyone who is bored enough to read it. 
> 
> Enjoy and tell me what you think!


End file.
